


Ashes Denote That Fire Was

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Extra Treat, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Suicidal Ideation, Touch-Starved, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29408310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Tim's curiosity and Jon's absent-mindedness result in Tim coming into possession of Gerard Keay's page. Tim doesn't realize just what he's found until he begins reading it, and by then it's too late to stop.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Tim Stoker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Ashes Denote That Fire Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrupwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/gifts).



> Thanks to MildredMost and peevee for the beta.

Tim fiddles with the piece of paper he’s holding, turning it in his hands. 

The paper is thin, nearly worn through from too much use, and it has an awful, almost oily feel. It looks something like parchment, but the feeling is all wrong, and Tim suspects that it might not be parchment at all.

It's folded, hiding whatever is written on it from sight, but the paper is so thin that he can see the dark, scrawling script it’s written in; can feel the indentations where the author pressed too hard. He hasn't opened it yet, is working himself up to it. There’s going to be a price for it, and he needs to get to the point where he can convince himself that it’ll be worth it.

It’s got to be good, whatever it is. The only reason it'd fallen out of Jon's pocket was because he kept reaching in there to play with it, his hands moving in that restless way that Tim recognized from when he was still trying to pretend that he'd quit smoking. At first Tim had believed it was that damned lighter that Jon also thought that none of them knew about. There’d been a time when he’d used it like a worry stone, pulling it out and turning it between his fingers, eyes distant. Then he'd stopped pulling it out, but his hand often strayed to his pocket, and if anyone had cared to look they would have seen his fingers moving, turning something over and over.

Tim had never cared, but recently he hasn’t been able to help it. Jon was at it all the bloody time, it seemed like, playing with that thing more than a kid who'd just discovered what his prick was for, hand always moving, catching Tim's eye even when he'd rather look anywhere but at his erstwhile, possibly evil boss. It scraped over his brain like sandpaper, caught there like a hook, and Tim found his eyes wandering more and more to Jon’s pocket and the mysterious object inside. He'd worked out quickly enough that it wasn't the creepy lighter Jon was fiddling with, but once he’d realized that it became something of a puzzle, one that Tim kept coming back to over and over, turning it in his mind, worrying at it the same way Jon kept worrying at whatever was in his pocket. 

He hated it. Hated wanting to know so badly. It didn't feel like him. He'd always liked puzzles, liked solving them, but he’d never _needed_ to before. Never wanted to know with an ache that seemed to go down to his bones, so deep that he found he could think of little else. It was this place. This fucking place, working on him, making it impossible to let go. Making him as determined to find Jon’s secret out as Jon was to keep it hidden. 

Jon should have known better. Whatever else their monster was, it wasn’t one for keeping secrets. 

Tim takes a deep breath and unfolds the paper. 

He understands almost instantly what it is he's looking at, and he immediately tries to turn his eyes away. He's never encountered a Leitner personally but he's heard of them, read about them, and knows what they can do. Too many of the statements involving them result in death or some sort of grotesque mutation for him to want to risk it, no matter what he thinks he might gain.

Only he can’t look away. Once his eyes catch on the first word they can't help but go to the next, and then the next, continuing on in spite of the cold place that's opening up in his stomach, the strange numbness starting in his fingers and spreading outwards over his body. His fingers clench down on the paper, making it shake, but his eyes keep moving over the page. A strange noise fills the room, almost a murmur, and it's only as he reaches the end that he realizes his mouth is moving, forming words. Reading aloud.

The moment that the last word passes his lips, there is someone else in the room with him. It isn't a slow process, like Tim might have imagined had he known what to expect, but something that happens all at once. One moment the room is empty save for himself, the next there’s a man standing in front of him, scowling.

He’s tall and thin, sort of unwashed looking, with long, stringy black hair that falls over his eyes. He pushes it back with hands that shake.

"You bastard," he says. "We had a deal. We-" Once his hair is out of his eyes, he catches sight of Tim and stops abruptly, staring.

"Well, shit," he says with feeling. "Did they catch him, then? Is that what happened?"

"Did who catch -" Tim's eyes drift back to the paper, still clutched in his hand. "You’re Gerard Keay," he says, and the man snorts.

"Well, yeah. Who did you expect?"

"I wasn't expecting anyone," Tim says. "I didn't know what would happen."

Keay gives him a flat look. "Do you often go around reading random pages torn out of books?" he asks. "Because let me tell you, that's a good way to get yourself killed."

Tim laughs hollowly. "That's not exactly the worst thing that could happen to me, is it?"

"Maybe not." Keay looks at him a moment, sizing him up. "So did you kill him then? The Archivist?"

"Jon?" Tim laughs again. "If anyone deserved it - well, no, there are probably people who deserve it more. No, he -"

"I can guess. Well, you can tell him no deal. Whatever he thinks he's playing at, keeping me around, it's not happening. I told him I wasn't going to play encyclopedia for him, and I meant it." He folds his arms across his chest and glowers at Tim.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tim says.

Keay tilts his head. "Then why am I here?" he says, and he sounds petulant, now. "Why didn't he destroy the page?"

"Said he would, huh?" Tim says, and when Keay nods he does, too. "Yeah. Jon says a lot of things." He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. "So he, what? Read you out of your page and you bartered for information? What information?"

Keay doesn't answer, but Tim doesn't really need him to. "There's only one thing he'd be asking about right now, isn't there? One thing that he'd want to know everything about. And of course the Great Jon Sims hasn't seen fit to share any of it." He's not entirely sure that's the truth, though. There'd been a certain way the others had all been looking at each other the few times he’s seen them, now that he thinks about it. Shifty little glances, mostly from Martin. If things had been different Tim would have already pried whatever he keeps looking so concerned about out of him, but they aren’t different and he has an idea that even if he tried, Martin wouldn't tell him. Because they're all so very worried about him.

"Right. I want you to tell me what you told Jon. He doesn't get to keep this to himself, not any more."

Keay shakes his head. "No. I told you, you'll get nothing more from me. I'm done with it." He shakes his head, looking disappointed. "I should have known he couldn't do it," he mutters. "He's too far along already."

"What does that mean? Too far along with what?" Tim asks, but Keay only shakes his head again, pursing his lips. Tim sees the stubborn jut of his chin and sighs. "Look, whatever it is that kept Jon from doing what you needed, it’s not affecting me. Tell me and I'll -"

"You'll what? Destroy the page and let me go? Yeah, I've heard that before. Pretty sure that that's exactly what your Archivist promised. Gertrude promised she'd free me too, and yet here I am. None of you are capable of keeping a promise like that; the knowledge is too important. I should have known," he says again, and spins around, away from Tim. His head droops for a moment and his shoulders shake once, then he's still aside from his hands, which are clenched into trembling fists at his sides.

"I'm not like them," Tim says. Keay laughs and starts to speak, but Tim talks over him. "I'm not. I don't care what it takes. If I say I'll get rid of this then I will, if only to make it so this place doesn't get to win. I don't care how much it hurts or who tries to stop me. It doesn't get to win."

Keay gives a mirthless little chuckle. "You know better."

"Maybe I do," Tim says. "But maybe that doesn't matter so much, for some.”

There's a long pause, then Keay says carefully, "Sounds like you're not planning to stick around and find out."

Tim shrugs. "I have business with the Circus," he says. "Then I guess we'll see what happens." He clenches his hands into fists, crinkling the paper he still holds. It's not that he's planning anything, exactly. More that he's not planning on what comes after they stop the Unknowing. Chances are that one or more of them won't even have an after to worry about, and if Tim gets as personal as he wants then he knows he won't. It's not something he thinks about too much, but when he does it doesn't scare him. It feels like exactly what was always meant to happen. It feels like it'll be worth it if it means ending the thing that killed Danny.

Keay turns around slowly. He no longer looks angry, but there's a wealth of sad understanding in his eyes that Tim has to look away from. Something in that look says that Keay knows better than most what's going through his head, and he doesn't like it.

"Revenge never works out like you plan," Keay says, still in that same careful tone. Tim feels it slide under his skin, prickling, and shakes his arms to rid them of the sensation.

"Haven't planned much," he says. "Mostly because no one will tell me anything.”

“I’m sure the Archivist has his reasons –“

“Sure, just like he has his reasons for not letting you go. Jon always has good reasons for everything he does, Gerry. That doesn’t make him right.”

Keay gapes at him long enough for Tim to think that he’s pissed him off with the nickname, then laughs. “Gerry,” he says, and shakes his head. “Right. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you.”

Tim feels his eyes go wide. He hadn’t expected that to work. “Wait, seriously? Just like that?”

“If you promise to do what your Archivist couldn’t.”

Tim cocks his head. “Thought you were done with people and their promises.”

“Call me an optimist.” Gerry’s voice is wry, and despite himself Tim finds that he’s grinning.

~***~

“That’s it?” Tim asks, when Gerry is finished. “That’s what you told Jon? Seriously?”

Gerry rolls his eyes. “I told you, I’m not an encyclopedia. Gertrude liked to keep things close. But my guess is that your Archivist is heading straight to that storage unit, if he hasn’t already. I bet he plans on putting whatever she stashed in there to use. And I’ll tell you something I didn’t tell him.” Gerry leans forward and so does Tim, curious in spite of himself what on earth Gerry could have held back from Jon’s questioning. “Whatever it is, she wasn’t the one who was going to use it.”

Tim blinks. “You’re having me on,” he says, and Gerry laughs that humorless laugh of his.

“No. Gertrude was…well, she was hard in a lot of ways. Ruthless. All that mattered was getting the job done. Not like your Archivist.”

“Stop calling him that,” Tim grumbles, and Gerry laughs again, this time with real amusement. “You’re talking about a sacrifice,” Tim adds, and Gerry nods.

“Yeah. She had a bad habit of that, Gertrude. Lost a few assistants along the way. She didn’t say much about it when I knew her, but it wasn’t really that hard to put things together. Not if you paid attention. I supposed I should have realised she’d keep me around, knowing that. But then I suppose we all hope we’re different, don’t we?”

There’s a heavy sadness in Gerry’s voice, mixed with a kind of wistful longing that Tim doesn’t want to understand. He does anyway.

“Thank you,” he says, and impulsively reaches out. He’s not sure what he means to do – pat Gerry’s arm, maybe, or clasp his shoulder. Something to make them both feel less alone, less like they’re being smothered by all the things that should have been different – but his hand passes right through him.

“Another fun benefit of being dead but not,” Gerry says. “Come on, do you really think that if I were corporeal I wouldn’t have grabbed my book and bolted? I know how I look but I wouldn’t have survived long if I couldn’t scrap a bit.” One side of his mouth ticks up. He suddenly looks oddly young standing there, shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, toe scuffing the ground and that odd little “aw shucks” smile tilting his lips, and Tim wonders just how old he was when he died, and how much he saw before that. How soon he started becoming acquainted with the things that thrive in the shadows. The things that feast on nightmares.

“Maybe that’s why it hurts so much,” Gerry says. “I’m not real, but I have the memory of it, and it aches.”

Tim thinks he understands. He feels something similar, although he knows that even now, all he’d have to do is reach out. It wouldn’t be who he wants, maybe, but someone would be there. Even so, his fingers ache with the need to brush against skin, to feel another person alive under his hands. He can’t imagine what he would do if he couldn’t even touch himself.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

Gerry gives him a rather intense look for a long moment, then smiles.

“Look, uh - I don’t think I caught your name,” he says.

“Oh, uh. Tim. Stoker. Sorry, I was a bit –“

“Yeah. Look, Tim. It’s close, isn’t it? The Unknowing.”

Not entirely sure what he’s getting at, Tim nods.

“Well then. Swear to me that you’ll destroy this after and I’ll – I might be able to be of more help. Maybe.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “I thought you said you couldn’t give me anything else,” he says.

Gerry shrugs. “I mean, probably not, but at the very least I could keep you company. No offense, but you seem a bit…well. On edge.”

“Oh, and you want to play hero? Save poor Tim from himself? No thanks.” Tim’s temper, always so close to the surface these days, flares hot and furious. “I don’t need an apparition with a savior complex. If you can’t help, then –“

“I can’t tell you anything about the Unknowing,” Gerry says, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t do something. Come on. Isn’t it just a little tempting to pick my brain while you can?”

It is tempting, but still Tim hesitates. “You said it yourself, if this thing, the –“

“The Eye.”

“-yeah, that. If it gets me, I might not be able to do what you want. I might not be able to destroy your page.”

Another shrug. “I want to see this done. And what can I say? I’ve never been able to leave anything half-finished. Even things that I should leave well enough alone.”

Tim snorts, his ill-humour departing nearly as suddenly as it came. “Yeah, okay,” he says, fighting down a smile. “But you have to pull your weight,” he adds, and for some reason he feels better, lighter than he has in a long time.

This time when Gerry laughs, there’s no bitter edge. “Of course.”

~***~

“You take me to the nicest places,” Gerry says.

Tim’s mouth twitches. “What, this isn’t romantic enough for you?” he says, gesturing expansively with his arm. “It’s got it all. Dark nooks, soft moonlight, grassy knolls…”

“Dead bodies,” Gerry’s voice is dry, and Tim can’t hold the grin back any longer. It spreads across his face easily, just like it used to back when things were much simpler, and for just a moment Tim feels that way, too. But only for a moment. It only takes another glance outside, at the neat rows of gravestones sticking up out of the earth like strange flowers, to remind him that things are anything but simple.

It had been Gerry who clued Tim into the fact that the skin didn’t have to be fresh, something he hadn’t thought of before. Jon had been taken because the Stranger wanted his, but it didn’t _need_ that specific skin.

From there it was as easy as keeping tabs on any reports of grave robberies in the area. Surly as he’d become, Tim still had friends in the police department, and although it had been harder than it should have been to turn on the charm, he’d still gotten what he wanted. PC Davis probably hadn’t, but well. Tim didn’t care very much. Flirting had been hard enough; he couldn’t imagine dealing with the man for more than a couple of minutes.

Of course, once PC Davis had figured out that a bit of flirting was all he’d be getting, he’d grown a lot less eager to talk, so while Tim had learned almost everything he needed to know regarding the first body that had been taken, the second was more of a mystery. So now here they are, not to stop anything but to take a look around. See what they can and move on.

He knows that whoever the Stranger has taken, they must mean something to it. Whether or not it could use just any skin doesn’t matter; these things like their symbolism. He hasn’t the faintest idea who “George Icarus” was, but he knows that he was important to them. Something tells him that whoever it was they dug up here, it’ll be someone he knows of.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done a good B&E,” Gerry remarks as Tim sneaks in. “I’m so flattered you thought to bring my page along with you.”

Tim snorts. “Oh yes, because you were so willing to stay behind,” he says. He has a torch in his hand, but it’s too close to the road to light it. He peers around the darkness, looking for any security that might be about, a precautionary measure that is too little, too late. He doesn’t see anyone, but that doesn’t really mean anything. Someone could be watching them right now. If PC Davis hadn’t informed him that the CCTV had been damaged in both cases nearly beyond repair, he wouldn’t even be attempting this. If he wasn’t aware that the CCTV in both this cemetery and the one before had been damaged nearly beyond repair, he wouldn’t even be attempting this.

“Well I’m certainly rethinking it now,” Gerry says.

Tim snorts again, then speaks, making his voice high pitched and slightly whiny. “I hope you don’t think you’re doing this alone, Stoker. You’ll likely get yourself caught. I, of course, would do it properly.”

Now it’s Gerry’s turn to snort. “Nice impression,” he says. “Truly the height of comedy, that. Please do go on.” Tim feels a wash of air against his side; Gerry’s version of a nudge. “If this is your idea of flirting it’s a wonder you got the information in the first place.”

The words are tentative, awkward, but Tim still feels himself flush. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent flirt,” he says. “When I turn it on, people fall all over themselves to –“

He stops. Up ahead in the darkness, barely visible in the scant light provided by the moon, is a mound of dirt. Could just be a new grave, but Tim doesn’t think so. He looks around again, then shrugs and flips on the torch.

The grave is still open. Police tape is set up around the border, cordoning it off from the rest of the site. Tim isn’t interested in peering in, though. Is only interested in one thing. He shines his torch on the stone at the head of the grave, and next to him Gerry draws in a sharp breath.

 _Gertrude Robinson_ is inscribed in the stone. Tim feels an odd urge to laugh, and he tampers it down ruthlessly.

“No wonder they didn’t come after Jon again,” he says. “Someone made it so they didn’t have to.” And Tim doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know who.

“It was a trade, wasn’t it?” Gerry asks. His voice sounds the same as it always does, but Tim can see that he’s curled his hands into fists at his sides. “One live Archivist’s skin for Gertrude’s.”

“I imagine whoever it was felt that Jon’s skin was more valuable right where it was,” Tim says. “I bet that if he hadn’t found his own way out, someone would have come for him. Or maybe he never found his own way out. Who knows?” he laughs, bitter and brittle enough to cut his throat. “Always one step ahead, isn’t he? Damn him, he always knows.” He takes a deep breath. “Whatever. I think I know where they are.”

Gerry casts a sharp look at him. “Wait, you do? Then –“

“I wanted to know who it was. I wanted to see – I knew it had to be someone important. I guess I just wanted to confirm with my own eyes that we’re being manipulated.”

Gerry doesn’t reply. Tim turns and heads back out of the cemetery, this time not bothering to be quiet. He has no doubt that he was supposed to come here. Come here, and then report his findings to Jon. Trust Jon to figure out a way to stop what’s coming. But Tim doesn’t trust Jon. He can’t.

“Fancy a trip to Great Yarmouth?”

~***~

“You need to talk to the Archivist,” Gerry says. He goes on, ignoring the huff Tim gives in response. “Whether or not he is giving you all the information he has, you need to work together. It won’t work if you don’t.”

“Oh, you’d know all about that,” Tim snaps, and then winces. Gerry doesn’t talk much about himself, but he’s said enough that Tim has gotten a pretty unflattering picture of what his life was like before he died. Being deliberately mean to him feels like kicking a puppy, although Gerry doesn’t do so much as flinch. He meets Tim’s eyes head on and nods.

“It’s because of that that I think you should,” he says. “This Archivist – Jon – isn’t Gertrude. He won’t set you up to be – well. I only met him the once, and even I know he isn’t the type.”

“He thinks I’m reckless,” Tim says. “Thinks I’m set to do something destructive.”

“Are you trying to say you aren’t?”

Tim scowls at him. If he’s learned things about Gerry during the days they’ve been together, then Gerry has learned much more about him, and he’s not above using it.

“You want him to think that you’re not gearing up for some sort of kamikaze run at this then you need to be the one to tell him what you’ve found first. Come on, Tim. You know I’m right.”

He is, the bastard. But Tim doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it, so instead of saying anything he just stomps his way out of his house, making sure to shut the door with a little extra force. He can hear Gerry laughing through the door, and an involuntary smile curls his own mouth. _Cheeky shit_.

Turns out that he doesn’t need to seek Jon out, after all, which is quite the relief. Whether or not Gerry is right doesn’t mean much next to the fact that Tim just really doesn’t want to be around Jon. Every time he gets near him his skin starts to crawl. Whenever Jon looks at him it feels like he’s trying to look inside, to peel off the top of his head and see what makes him tick, and all Tim can think about is how it felt to have Martin tell him that Jon had several photos of his house. Photos that had been taken at night, and Tim has no way of knowing what night it was but he can’t help but wonder if it was one of the times he’d brought someone home. If he had, would Jon have watched? Tim isn’t always careful about leaving his curtains drawn, and say it _had_ been one of the nights that he wasn’t alone. Would Jon have stayed for the whole thing? Tim can’t know, not for sure, but he thinks he would have. The thought that Jon might have photos of that sort squirreled away somewhere too makes him feel slightly ill.

Tim had gone a little mad, after the Jane Prentiss attack, but there hasn’t been anyone in his house in a long time. He wonders if Gerry would show up on film. What Jon would say if he were stalking him now and found out about his current house guest.

He doesn’t come right out and ask, but Tim can see he wants to. It’s there in the way he keeps shooting sidelong glances at Tim’s face, the way he keeps opening his mouth and then closing it. Tim avoids his looks as much as possible, distracts him with questions when he sees Jon working himself up to spitting out the question hovering on his tongue, and gets the hell out when they’ve finished, feeling anxious and irritable. Feeling like he’s just spent the last hour being interrogated. He’s pretty sure that’s exactly what happened.

Jon catches him just before he can escape, and Tim jerks from the light touch on his arm like he’s been scalded. It feels like he’s been scalded – Tim can’t remember the last time anyone touched him, and Jon’s the last person he wants touching him now.

“Don’t,” he says, the words harsh and low, and Jon takes two steps back, hands going up to his shoulders, palms out. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t –“

“Don’t touch me,” Tim says, breathing hard. “I don’t want you touching me. Not ever.”

“Fine, I won’t. I just wanted to ask –“

“Don’t,” Tim says again. “Don’t you dare. We both know what happens when you ask a question, and you can’t – you don’t get to do that to me.”

There’s a moment where Jon considers doing it anyway. Tim sees it on his face. He wants to, wants to maybe more than he even knows, but in the end when he opens his mouth what he says is, “You should let him go.”

“Let who go?” Tim asks, all innocence. Jon just looks at him, and he shakes his head. “It’s none of your business.” He turns away.

“I wanted to,” Jon says, the words coming out hurried, practically falling over each other in his haste to push them out, to keep Tim from leaving. “I told him I would and I wanted to, but I –“ he gives a helpless little laugh. “Even the thought of it hurt.” Tim turns to look at him, but Jon isn’t looking back. His eyes are focused inward, on something Tim can’t see. Something he isn’t sure he wants to. “You should do it before it hurts too much. He deserves that much.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Tim says. “I’m not like _you_ ,” he adds, aiming the words at Jon like bullets. Jon flinches, and his eyes fly up to meet Tim’s. They’re wide and terrified and vulnerable, but Tim can’t bring himself to care. It’s too late for that.

He’s furious the whole way home, and when he finally enters the house Gerry’s expectant expression just pisses him off even more. He storms past him without a word and heads for his room, where he showers and then gets in bed, sliding naked between cool sheets and closing his eyes, willing his mind to shut off so that he can sleep.

It doesn’t work. Tim tosses and turns for what feels like hours, restless, mind refusing to calm down. It’s not just the fight with Jon; that’s mostly an excuse. The real thing keeping him up isn’t anxiety but anticipation.

 _Not long now_ , he thinks. They have their skin and they have their arena, now all that’s left is to organize the dance.

He turns over again. He’s tired; he can feel the exhaustion pressing against the back of his eyes. Still, his thoughts are racing too fast for sleep. There’s only one way he can think of to calm himself down enough to get some rest.

Tim widens his legs and slides his hands under the covers.

He starts slow, moving one hand leisurely over his stomach, tracing lazy lines up and down his body just to feel the way it shivers when he hits a sensitive spot. The place is always different; sometimes it’s along his side, others it’s right below his ribs. Tim runs his fingers along it over and over, enjoying the sensation, the abrupt drop in his belly every time he hits the right spot. His other hand he uses to toy with his nipples, scraping his fingernail over first one and then the other, feeling them harden under his touch.

The strokes along his flank grow longer, each one moving him closer and closer to his groin. He’s still only half-hard, and as he closes his hand around himself he pictures some nameless, faceless someone kneeling in front of him, their mouth wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. He pumps his cock with one hand and slides the other down to cup his balls, dragging his nails over them and kneading them lightly with a soft moan.

His back arches slightly as he picks up his pace, and the door doesn’t open but he sees a gleam in the darkness and freezes.

Someone is watching him. For a moment he thinks of Jon, peering at him with a camera ready, but the window is on the other side of the room, and anyway, now that he’s focusing he can see the shape of a too-pale face surrounded by black hair. If he looks hard enough he can even see where some of the strands lay over the face itself, breaking up the paleness with small dark lines.

The glint he’d seen are the eyes, wide and fixed on him, on where his hands are tenting the covers. Tim hesitates, thinking again of Jon, of how it chilled him to think of Jon seeing him like this. But he’s not chilled now. He’s warm, Gerry’s hot gaze firing his blood, making his cock rise in his loose fist. He _wants_ those eyes on him, he realizes. Wants Gerry looking.

Tim makes a decision. In a sudden movement, he tosses the covers off of his body, exposing it to the cool air of his room. But mostly to those eyes.

Tim resumes his movements, stroking himself, rubbing his shaft and his balls. He’s rock hard, precome leaking from his slit, and he presses his thumb against it and gasps, head tipping back. Gerry’s eyes stay on him, and the only sound in the room is their harsh breathing. Gerry doesn’t need to breathe, Tim knows, but he is; breathing so hard he’s nearly panting. Tim isn’t doing much better. He keeps his gaze on Gerry as he strokes, toes curling, thinking of what it would be like to have his hands on him, running over his body. It’s been so long. So long since he could trust anyone enough to think of them like this – not Sasha, not Martin, not anyone - and having a face to match the fantasy is a heady thing, almost overwhelming.

He doesn’t want to come, but he’s too far gone already to draw it out the way he’d like, his body tightening and pleasure spiraling, and he comes with is eyes screwed shut, cursing so that he doesn’t give voice to a name, calling for someone he wants but can never have.

By the time Tim opens his eyes again, Gerry is gone, almost as if he was never there at all.

~***~

They don’t talk about it. Why would they? Tim was wound up, Gerry curious, and that’s the end of it.

Instead they talk about what happened with Jon, and what it means. “Now it really is almost over,” Gerry says, and Tim nods. There’s an odd note of wistfulness in Gerry’s voice, and Tim feels the echo of it in his own chest. He wants it over, he does, wants to find a way to make those things pay, but that won’t be the only thing that ends.

It hasn’t even been that long – barely a couple of weeks – but he feels like he knows Gerry better than anyone else, feels closer to him than he has to anyone in a long time. Maybe even before everything went to hell.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” he offers, and when Gerry gives him a curious look, adds, “about Gertrude. The, uh. The grave.”

“Ah.” Gerry purses his lips, then shakes his head. “It wasn’t – it doesn’t matter. Not really. Not the way you think.” He gestures down at himself. “This isn’t what you think. Yeah, you see a person here, but it’s like – it’s a direct image, a snapshot if you will, of what I was like when I died. That’s it. I can learn some stuff, pick up on things, but nothing that I wouldn’t have picked up on learned at the time I died. I can’t change my appearance or touch things or feel –“ he looks down at the ground and takes a deep breath. “Sometimes something gets through. But even those things are more like faded photographs, memories of things that I used to feel. It usually doesn’t touch me.” His gaze lifts, eyes catching Tim’s and holding, and Tim is hit with the memory of the night before. Gerry’s eyes fixed on him while he brought himself off, wide and filled to the brim with a fire Tim had never seen from him before. “And when it does, it just makes the pain worse.”

Tim flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but he hates hearing that last night, which already shines in his memory, one bright spot in the misery he’s been in since Prentiss’s attack on the Institute, can only be painful for Gerry.

“Does it hurt to be out like this?” he asks. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t asked, just kept Gerry out and around, sensing in some way that he had to be released to go back to his page and unwilling to do it. Possibly torturing him the entire time. Tim fights to keep these thoughts from his face; he’s already been plenty unfair here; he doesn’t need to make it worse.

“Yeah,” Gerry says, then smiles. “But it’s not so bad. Better company than I’m used to, for one.”

Tim laughs. “Better looking, for sure,” he says, leering, and Gerry’s eyes flare hot again before he turns away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he agrees lightly.

So they don’t talk about it. But when Tim goes to bed that night, Gerry follows.

~***~

“I think that we should all make a statement,” Jon says, and the only reason he doesn’t glare at Tim’s incredulous laugh is because Melanie is louder.

“Oh, you have got to be joking,” she says. She slaps away the calming hand Basira puts on her shoulder the second it makes contact, and though Basira doesn’t wince, Tim sees the skin around her eyes tighten. Melanie hadn’t held back.

She gets in Jon’s face, snarling, and Tim sees the rage on her face and thinks that if Jon isn’t careful she’s going to tear into him with her teeth. He would be lying if he said the thought didn’t give him a vicious sort of satisfaction. If anyone would deserve it, he thinks, and then thinks of Elias, smirking in his office and probably watching this little byplay on the CCTV. If anyone deserves to feel the business end of Melanie’s rage surely it’s him, even more so than Jon. He’s the one who’s been pulling their strings, after all. Even Jon’s, although Tim sometimes gets the feeling Jon likes having his strings pulled.

“Not a chance,” Melanie hisses into Jon’s startled face. “That thing isn’t getting any more from me, not ever. It can go spy on someone else for a change. Do you hear me? If I even see a recorder and I’m going to make you eat it.”

It’s Martin who grabs a hold of Melanie and reels her back, away from Jon. She turns on him, practically hissing like a feral cat, and Martin pulls his hand back quickly, looking apologetic.

“It’s not about that,” he says, so soft, so reasonable, wide worried eyes fixed on her face. Melanie barks out an incredulous laugh and Martin frowns. “It isn’t,” he insists.

“So he won’t be listening to everything that we say?” she asks, and Jon flinches but doesn’t say anything. Of course he’s going to listen; it’s what he does now.

“That doesn’t matter,” Martin says. “Whether or not Jon listens, something has to be left. In case…” he trails off and looks at Jon then, and his face is full of such longing and misery that for just an instant, Tim forgets how angry he is and aches instead. The last thing that Martin wants is to be left behind, but he knows his role. Hell, it was his idea. But any fool can see that he’d rather be where he can keep an eye on Jon, make sure he’s safe. Tim doesn’t really get it, but he understands that type of longing, all right. 

Melanie’s shoulders sag. “Fine,” she says, breathing hard, her hands curled into trembling fists. “Fine. But don’t expect me to play nice forever.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon says, and Tim half expects Melanie to fly at him again, but she just chokes out a mirthless little laugh.

Jon gives her an uncertain look. “Right. Statements, then. Just something to give the main points, state why – I mean –“

“Last will and testament, right boss?” Tim says, cheerfully enough he thinks. If you ignore whatever his face is doing, and he for one plans to. “Except not really, because nothing we say will be leaving the Institute, will it? No matter what we say, who we want to say goodbye to, we can’t. Because as far as the rest of the world is concerned, this isn’t happening.” _At least not until it’s the Eye’s turn to try_ , he doesn’t add. This is it for him, he knows. Everything that his life has been leading to since that night four years ago when he lost his baby brother. He’ll get his revenge, and he’s not sure it matters much what comes after.

Jon is watching him. Tim looks back calmly, wondering how much of his thought process Jon is picking up on. Wondering too if he senses the piece of paper in his jacket pocket, carefully folded and tucked away close to his chest like a love letter from a sweetheart. Wonders if he knows what Tim plans to do with it later, before they head out to the Wax House. And then, as Jon turns away to gaze after Martin, who is walking resolutely away with his back too straight to be anything but an effort not to look back, he decides he doesn’t care. There’s nothing that Jon can do about any of it now.

Hours later he throws himself on a cheap hotel bed. He’s exhausted enough to want to just pass out as he is, not bother undressing, moving, doing anything but closing his eyes and drifting off. Who knew that spending hours in a cramped space trying to pretend that the other occupant isn’t there would take so much effort?

But no. Tim can’t sleep. There’s no rest for the wicked, as they say, and Tim doesn’t know if he qualifies but he sure has things to do. No rest for the wicked, or the weary, or the broken and furious and sick at heart. No rest for those who have things to finish before the end.

Tim sighs and sits up, reaching into his jacket. He pulls out the piece of paper and looks at it, fingers caressing the sheet as though if he tries hard enough, he might be able to reach the man trapped within. He takes his time unfolding it, doing it slowly, reverently, smoothing it out so that he can see the words but not reading anything. Not yet. Instead, he puts the paper down next to him and reaches for the other thing in his pocket.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.” He turns on the tape recorder.

He takes it to Jon after. He doesn’t want it in the room with him, doesn’t want it to be a silent witness to what he has to do next. That isn’t for Jon or his god, he thinks. They’ve gotten so much of him already – his freedom, his sense of peace, maybe his sanity – but they can’t have this.

Jon takes the recorder wordlessly. In the dim light from the hall his face looks shadowed and haggard, and Tim feels himself soften slightly. “Get some sleep,” he says, for once not snapping, and turns around.

“Tim,” Jon says.

“Yeah, boss?” he asks, and in another minor miracle his voice doesn’t twist on the word. It’s over now, he thinks. Well and truly. Whatever happens later tonight or early tomorrow he’s finally lost the will to take his anger out on Jon. It’s a relief.

“It, uh. It has to be burned. Do you have -?”

Tim grits his teeth. “It’s already done,” he says. Lies. _Not for you_ , he thinks again.

“Oh. Right. Right. Well, good. That’s, that’s good. Try to get some rest.”

“You know what they say,” Tim says, and walks away before Jon can reply.

He almost does it without reading. It would be a mercy, he thinks. Easier on both of them if he just lights the match and lets him go, lets their brief time together burn away with him. Summoning him for trite goodbyes is just masochism.

Tim does it anyway.

Gerry looks less than impressed with their accommodations. “Boss couldn’t even spring for the good stuff?” he asks, and despite himself Tim feels a smile pull at his mouth.

“Nah. Can’t expense it if we’re dead,” he says, and watches Gerry’s face fall.

“It’s always a risk,” is all he says. “This is it, isn’t it? End of the line.” There’s relief on his face and in his voice, relief and pain and regret. Tim knows how he feels.

“That it is,” Tim says. “Figured it’d be best to get it out of the way before we head over there. Might not be able to find any matches once we get started, and I don’t want to leave you here. You could end up with anyone, which is fine if they’re fit, but –“

“Tim,” Gerry says, and Tim snaps his mouth closed so fast his teeth click together. “I don’t want to go home with someone fit.” He grins. “I doubt anyone would give me the kind of show you do.”

“You love it,” Tim says, and Gerry’s grin softens into something far sweeter, but he doesn’t reply. Probably a good thing. No point in talking about it.

“I guess you should probably…” Tim nods back at the paper, not quite willing to say it, and Gerry looks at it a moment before shaking his head.

“I’d rather stay out here, if you don’t mind.” _With you_ , he doesn't say, and maybe doesn’t mean, but that’s all right. Tim means it for both of them. 

Still. “Won’t that hurt?” Tim doesn’t know if he can handle his last sight of Gerry being him screaming in pain, or wreathed in flames or whatever happens when he finally destroys the thing in his hands.

“Probably, but I don’t think it’ll be that bad. It wasn’t as bad as I thought when the Archivist ripped my page out.” The sweet smile returns to his face. “I’d like you to be the last thing I see. The last thing I remember from my first death was pain and struggling to breathe. I want something nice this time.”

“Always knew you thought I was hot,” Tim says, and Gerry snorts. 

“You’ll have to do, you mean.” he says, rolling his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Right. Let’s get this over with, yeah?” 

“Okay,” Tim says. “Any last words, then?” There’s an ache in his chest, a yearning that he doesn’t want to name, can’t name, and his hands fight him when he moves to strike the match. But strike it he does, the sound too loud in the quiet room. 

Gerry shakes his head, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, a few. I’m – I know this is going to sound weird, but I’m glad I met you. I just wish -” 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Me, too.” Eyes locked on Gerry’s face, he touches the flame to the paper. 

Gerry doesn’t scream or writhe in pain. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head once. “It’s not so bad,” he says, and then the flames reach his name and he’s gone. He disappears the same way he appeared: all at once, winking out of existence like he was never there to begin with.

Feeling like he’s in a daze, Tim walks to the sink and drops the page in. He watches it burn itself to ash through blurry eyes and then stumbles his way back to the bed. He sits down and puts his head in his hands. 

Hours later, Jon knocks on his door, and Tim lifts his head. His eyes are dry and his face is set into an expression of fierce resolution. 

It’s time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Dickinson.
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, please consider letting me know. :)


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